Secretly
by ImagineI
Summary: A SherlockXJohn fic, fluffy and eventually lemony. Involving a stashed jumper, a stolen phone and cakes. A mystery included, not just romance. Dedicated to Mirith Griffin. Enjoy! Rated M for later slash.
1. Foreign Concept

The start of something new!

Dedicated to **Mirith Griffin**, that spark, that lark who sings a thousand steamy praises to Sherlock. Thank you. READ HER WORK... please ^.^

Here is my attempt at some fluff... it would be lovely to hear what you think : )

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><p><strong>Foreign Concept<strong>

Sherlock slid his dusty-blue eyes over towards John, alerting no other muscles. He lay on the sofa, atypically facing the window through which the white light of a dull London day permeated. The doctor was sat parallel to him, at the table, stern-faced and eyes watery from the severe light of his laptop screen.

_John has excellent transduction, almost perfect visual perception. He usually complains of too much light when I read. Prefers the glow of the fire. Therefore it is supplementary that he has the radiance at such an extreme level. _

_Why: 1) Stain on left shirt-sleeve cuff = smudged = irritated from attempt to remove; colour, orange, specific to Annatto (E160b), a reddish-orange dye made from the seed of the achiote; occurs in: confectionary, also to heighten pigment in orange peel... relatively cheap, also, not conflicting with flavour. John does not eat sweets. Prefers chocolate. Not confectionary. No orange pith beneath newly cut nails, unlikely dye from orange skin would have stained to such extent. Ergo, another option... Ah! Slight stain at right corner of mouth: curry. Tikka. Concordant with 'boozy night out'. Unlikely = no redness underneath eyes; no paracetamol taken, no headache; no sweating. No hangover. So... date. Close shave yesterday morning, little stubble today. Concern over appearance. Hair washed. Nails, as afore-deduced, cut. Freshly ironed shirt, freshly pressed trousers. No jumper. Foreign concept. Jumper lost? Unlikely. Jumper lent to shield from North North East Wind of 13 kph, -3°C temperature last night? Likely. Thus: female acquaintance. _

John glanced over at Sherlock as the detective sighed with poignant disappointment, eyes narrowed at him like a fox and face cast with intensity.

"Something the matter?"

He received no reply, blinked and then set back to his emails.

_So. Bright laptop-screen light = Out late on curry date with female. Late hours don't elicit poor vision for John. Used to long days. Army. Must be exhausted, however, for luminosity to be required. Exhaustion for John Watson... fatigue... Mental Exertion. Mental Exercise. Contradiction: John capable of explicit retention, complex analysis. Well-trained Basal Ganglia... so... activity in Anterior Cingulate Gyrus- concerned with rapid emotional perception- resulted in tiredness. When... how..._

John looked over at Sherlock once more and found him in a state of pure concentration, chin tilted down, eyes closed and fingers steepled. His black hair was just as tempestuous as ever, ambiguously thick and his black cotton shirt and trousers crumpled ever so slightly as he breathed as shallow as a ghost. John found himself momentarily interested in the sheer length of the man's body before, suddenly, the corner of Sherlock's eye twitched and his mouth downturned into a frown, but only for a split second before it resumed neutrality.

_Intercourse. Psychosomatically-injured leg (engaging Deep Limbic System) bent in..._

Sherlock emitted a monosyllabic laugh, peaking Watson's curiosity.

_Missionary. Obviously. How traditional._

"Private joke, Sherlock? Hmm? Oh no, you go right ahead; laugh and berate me later for not comprehending your cosmic, cranial comedy."

_Did not take jumper back. Planning ulterior-motive phone call. Desires another date. Has not told me about it. Does not want me involved. Takes this one 'seriously'. Has not kept mobile phone in accessible distance to me. Hence replacing mobile with replica bought off Aaron, street boy, in exchange for John's watch, given to him by a distant aunt and which he does not use. Phone distance equals distancing from... me? Unfamiliar guilt in self... Should initiate male banter..._

Stretching, Sherlock turned onto his side and sat upright, hands holding the navy sofa cushions next to his thighs.

"So," he began, employing some joviality in his voice. "Good date?"

John exhaled sharply through his nose, went to type and then gave Sherlock an exasperated look.

"How did you know-" he paused and then assumed a wide-eyed, surrendering expression, closing his laptop and folding his arms behind it. "Never mind. Yes. It went well. Please do not ask me her name, number or address. Please do not stalk her." His voice was as calm as an elephant's stomach.

"A friend's concern, nothing more!"

"And Jerry the Cat didn't mean to drink the milk."

"Please, John, I grow bored of tidbit sayings."

"Well, I'm bored of not having one date without you wanting to psycho-analyse them! Not all women are Kelly Breilly." Sherlock gave him a quizzical look. "The one who did so happen to be an obsessive compulsive thief."

"Ahh, yes. Number twenty three."

"You keep count?"

"You don't?"

"No!"

Silence as Sherlock pursed his lips and swung his foot from side to side like a contemplative cat.

"Well... I promise I'll _try_ to-"

"No."

"She'll have to mee-"

"She won't meet anyone because I'm only going to meet her once more anyway." With that, John pushed the laptop away from him and stood up, looking away from Sherlock, who most certainly wasn't looking away from John. He was caught by the shadow of compact muscle on one side of John's chest and his arm made visible by the sunlight underneath that white, white shirt.

"To collect your jumper." Sherlock didn't even bother to inject the slightest hint of a question into the statement, tone dazed. He was hypnotised by John but at the same time slightly put off by the fact that he hadn't realised John didn't want to continue dating whoever this woman was. _Hasn't answered three silent texts since nine o'clock... _He mentally flicked his intelligence.

"What?"

"You gave her your jumper," Sherlock asserted, darting his eyes upward to meet John's blueberry blues.

"No. I didn't," he replied, plainly.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side almost imperceptibly.

"I lent it to her, yes. But she doesn't have it. I'm going to get food. Anything you need?" John waited, but was met with a blank-faced Sherlock who didn't seem like he would answer for at least another five minutes. "I've got my phone on me."

Five minutes after John left, Sherlock stood up, cribbed the left over piece of toast from John's plate on the table and munched unashamedly on it as he flipped open John's mobile from his pocket, reading as he walked to John's room.

'**No hard feelings about last nite, it could happen to anyone when their around a person for so long... but since your not seeing him, could I have Sherlock's number? x**' From a lady called Jessica's iPhone.

_Middle-class (attempting modern colloquialisms 'nite' amidst refined vernacular 'since'; 'could'). Tone likely of a graduate, not English Language and/or Literature- misspelt 'their' and 'your'... John's 'type' likely to speak well..._

He came to John's room, but froze in the doorway.

On the bed was a blue jumper, tightly-knit alpaca wool, with a pale grey stripe around the middle.

_Redhead. _

There was a red hair stray on the shoulder of the jumper. The jumper Sherlock had nonchalantly bought John a week ago, for Christmas. Bought here can be defined as finding it, buying it and secretly smuggling- silently stashing- it in one of John's drawers. John had found it on Boxing Day and...

_Hasn't stopped wearing it..._

Sherlock swallowed, closed the phone just as it glowed with another text:-

'**YOU CALLED OUT HIS NAME? Jeeeeeeeesus, John. What are you gonna do now?**' From Celie.


	2. Tea From Every Orifice

**Tea From Every Orifice**

"Sherlock, _where_ is my mobile?" John marched into the living room just as Sherlock, sitting, swept up his feet and rested them on the chair opposite, under the table. His fingers tap-danced on the keyboard of John's laptop, fast as James Devine and his eyes were at half-mast- disinterested with the content on the screen. "Sherlock. Sherlock!" John barked, brandishing the phone replica.

"I never understood musophobia. Rats and mice are as common as pigeons and I don't know about you, but I've never seen a Londoner squealing manically down the streets because of a _Columbidae_. Then again, any fear is foolish. I believe the _amygdala_ should be explored in more depth, to save the peculiar lutraphobes and aulophobes of this world."

John blinked, incredulous throughout Sherlock's mumbled maunder. He almost dropped the plastic bag- with three tins of Heinz tomato soup, green-top milk and a Kit-Kat- but thought against it in his wearied vexation. Instead, he-

"Don't throw that mobile at me, John. I'll catch it and you'll be even mo-" The phone bumped proudly against Sherlock's feline-high cheekbone and landed in his lap.

"Soup?" John offered, somewhat joyously, as he strode into the kitchen. Sherlock pursed his lips, put the mobile on the table and prodded the back of his lower left incisor tooth.

"Oh, you want me to partake in the soup that inspired a homophobic controversy now?" Sherlock muttered, logging into the email specific for any correspondence from Lestrade. The imagined cry of John calling out his name in rapture echoed in his mind and he confused himself with the reaction that sped through his body. In half a mili-second, though, he had batted the fantasy away but the smirk still played on his lips like a mischievous child. He deliberated for a second as he wondered whether he should delete the texts that enlightened him...

"What was that?"

"Nothing, John, nothing. So, I presume you're occupied for the night, then? With Jessica?" Sherlock probed the mobile in his trouser pocket. He slipped it out and quickly deleted both texts pertaining to last night.

Silence. Then, storming back into the room without a second thought for his tomato and basil soup,

"Right, give me my phone, Sherlock. That's one step too-" John stopped speaking just in time to catch his mobile. Sherlock had swivelled in his seat at the same time. He leant forward and pressed his palms together, pointing at John with them.

"Must've switched them by accident."

"Likely."

"Ah, so you do have some faith in-"

"Sarcasm."

Sherlock made a silent 'ah' with his mouth and looked back on the email he had opened. He leaned back in his chair, stretched out and folded his limber legs and undid the top button of his shirt, still profile to the laptop. There was a definite pause that lasted no more than a second, an ephemeral intake of breath from John before he raced into a rant.

"No. Before you even ask, no. I will not sneak into the backstage of the Palladium. I will not drive you to the burlesque show in Brixton. I will not lend you a hand in Henley and I _will not_ be your interpreter for whatever heist you're planning on the deaf-mute charity in Pimlico."

"John, we've cracked those cases before. I'm not about to ask you to-"

"You _are_ about to ask me to do something of that ilk. So- negative. Absolutely not. By no means. Never, nix, no way, nein-"

"Before you reel off the entire listing of 'no' from the thesaurus, let me get _my_ words out at least. I was going to say... have a good time. And don't let it boil over."

"Oh... well, I'll be kind to her. She didn't do anything wrong-"

"Not the squaw, John, the soup."

"Huh?" John glanced behind him and saw the angry soup protesting. "Oh!"

As John saved his slighted soup, Sherlock sighed and considered the email.

'**Sherlock. Missing builder from construction site. Female builder. Last seen Tuesday. Slovenian immigrant, n.o. Cvetco Androjna . Any leads; clues; ideas; inklings... something, anything. Slovenian ambassador worried. Lestrade.**'

"John, what day is it today?"

"It's on the corner of the-" John was about to repeat a sentence he'd said near a hundred times before he shook his head and sat in the armchair, bowl in hand. "Friday." He blew off the steam.

"Ah, never mind- it says so here in the corner of the screen. Hmm..." Speedily, Sherlock wrote a bullet-point response.

'**Obv. question all on site. Investigate nearest airport. Check for anything precious stolen from safe on** **site...**'

He swerved his fingers round on the laptop touchpad and the mouse obeyed, leading him to Facebook. Hacking nonchalantly into John's account, he typed in the missing woman's name. Two results appeared. One of a slightly tanned, overly-made up brunette in a striped vest that displayed two firm but fake assets.

The other had

"A tight smile; pony-tail straining the skin around her bony ears; cheekbones lunging out of the photograph; eyes: wide and army-green, pupils dilated. A quick hunt through the photo gallery confirms recent acute nasal septum perforation..."

"Drug addict..." John mused, in dazed harmony with Sherlock.

A few seconds later- dodging under the social network's safety guard- Sherlock discovered the latter's account had recently been deactivated but that Cvetco had signed back in within the retrial period yesterday noon. Scanning the lady's contacts and breaching all manner of human rights by scrutinising her 'Wall', Sherlock returned to the reply and typed six more words:

'**Track dog named Alphonz. Devil's Dandruff****.** **SH****.**'

That done, Sherlock browsed the BBC news website, checked the weather, noted the sudden influx of advertisements concerning Japanese food all over the web and then closed the laptop.

John watched as Sherlock strained his neck to the right and clamped a hand over the curve of neck that joined with his shoulder.

"Ache?" he asked.

"Slight," Sherlock bit the word out as if with disgust, quietly. John narrowed his eyes and almost glared at the back of Sherlock.

"You did that yesterday, too. Before I left."

"Maybe I slept funny."

"You haven't slept in a week. And don't use colloquialisms."

"The back support on this chair is abominable."

"It was bought specially for-"

"John, it's fine," Sherlock interrupted, but he sounded distracted. John was too busy slurping the last of his soup to see Sherlock peek out of the window. A second later, he shot up and almost leapt into the kitchen.

"Idea for an experiment?"

"Nope. We-" Sherlock paused, smiling when the doorbell rang within his estimation- "have company. I'll make the tea."

"Why so chipper? And you can't make tea," John said, making his way downstairs.

"John, if I could pour tea from every orifice in my body just to make this more enjoyable, I would," Sherlock whispered to himself, gleefully. He spun on his heel and fell back against the kitchen counter, closing his eyes and biting his lower lip as he heard John's voice from downstairs:

"Jessica! What are you doing here? I mean, um... I was going to-"

"You texted me to bring that jumper back around...? You said Sherlock was in."

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><p>Hope you enjoyed! Reviews would of course be splendid, I welcome all feedback so please don't hold back! If you do, never mind- have an helium-balloon deerstalker on your way out : )<p> 


	3. The Doorknob Of His Sexuality Closet

**The Doorknob Of His Sexuality Closet**

"I couldn't find your jumper, sorry, John. But, um..." Jessica peeked round the doorframe, a paper bag clutched in both her slender hands. "I brought croissants!" She spied Sherlock sitting stylishly in an armchair by the fireplace. He had, in the space of thirty seconds, donned a suit-jacket and polished black brogues. "Oh! Um... hello." Sherlock didn't have to turn his head from his newspaper to notice the coquettish smile on the lady's lips. John ambled in behind Jessica, pursed his own lips in a nervous manner and swallowed as Sherlock looked at the cherry-red beauty in their living room. Well, looked was an understatement.

His dark eyebrows slightly shadowed an intense, focused stare and the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth was positively- or, rather, negatively- coy. This expression was the first of many instances to come that inspired John's eyebrows to gradually come together over his nose, as if huddling in fear.

The air seemed to fizzle and crack as no one spoke for five seconds, unmoving.

"Err..." John cleared his throat and Sherlock's gaze was broken. As John introduced them both, Sherlock's eyelids dropped half an inch and he placed the newspaper on the round table in front of him. "Sherlock Holmes, this is..." he paused and rubbed his forehead with the back of his index finger.

_Psychosomatic sweeping away of imaginary sweat from brow: stress._

"Well, you probably know who this is-"

"Of course he does!" Jessica beamed, holding the paper bag out to John- who, depressing himself, took it- as the kettle whistled from the kitchen. He padded into the kitchen like a dismissed dog and his lips tightened in realisation. "He's Sherlock Holmes!" Jessica squealed. _Use of full name, excited tone, hand shaking as she holds it out... slight delusions about me, has fantasised..._ She bent over as she practically danced over to him in her red stilettos.

_Vain; takes egotistical fashion measures no matter the weather. Today: South West winds of 8 mph, low temperature of 1°._

He was gifted with a glimpse of creamy-pale cleavage as she bent down and offered her hand.

"Jessica Townsend." Sherlock took her hand and smiled as John came to the doorway between the kitchen and living room, eyes darting from woman to man, fangirl to axe-sharp detective who was more than likely to chop Jessica down like a baby spruce who was stealing too much juice from the rest of the forest. A spruce in a knee-length, fitted 'Jackie' belted Garbardine sheath dress.

"A pleasure to meet you-" Sherlock maintained the handshake as he stood up, maintained eye contact as he placed his other hand on top of Jessica's- "Jess, is it? May I call you Jess?"

_Cold hands. Why: Shallow breathing, nervous. Not enough oxygen to recharge blood-cells. _

John's eyebrows inched together a tad more as Sherlock's thumb stroked over Jessica's.

"Y-yes, you can call me Jess. Oh!" John wasn't sure if Jessica was aware she was partially curtsying to Sherlock now, hands still locked. The corners of her green eyes creased. "I rhymed!"

"Oh- ahaha!" The eyebrows had come to panic stage four. "Quite," Sherlock laughed. He turned his head to John, still covering Jessica's hand like a pearl-clam shell. "Tea ready, John? And those croissants- maybe put them on those blue china plates Mrs Hudson stowed away in the sink cupboard?" John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. "Or not... we could be heathens and eat them from the packet," he joked with Jessica.

"Oh, come on, John," Jessica mock-begged. Sherlock spied the dagger-sharp glint in one of John's eyes before John smiled, turned and complied. Sherlock quickly let go of Jessica's hand as he spun round too and pushed items around on the dining table to make room.

"He invited her around. Why? I told him I wasn't going to continue seeing her. Stubborn git." John grumbled to himself in the kitchen as he pressed the teabags against the enamel of the mugs so hard tea-leaves almost spilled out.

"I take two sugars, John!" Jessica called.

"I'd have thought you were sweet enough," Sherlock teased. Yes, Sherlock. Teased.

"Oh, this is just _great__,_this is just _fine_," John muttered, murderously. He finished making the teas, upturned the croissants onto three plates from the paper bag, put it all on a tray and- "Oh," John joked jadedly to himself, "Mustn't forget my white maid's pinafore."

He returned to the living room to find Sherlock sitting in a chair facing the kitchen, with Jessica behind him, two silky legs parted at his back and squeezing his legs together as she massaged his neck. His eyes were closed, somehow intensely.

"Is that better?" Jessica cooed into his ear. John's eyebrows convention had officially convened.

"Ahem."

"Oh!" Jessica couldn't have sounded less innocent. She disentangled herself from Sherlock and sat on the chair next to him. "Looks wonderful," she smiled, blushing as John marched over and set the tray on the table. But John didn't see Jessica. All he saw was a smiling, relieved-looking Sherlock, half-whistling, half-blowing in satisfaction.

"Goodness, Jessica. I'm sure you'll qualify. If you don't, send them to me and I'll sort them out." They both giggled. Giggled. John's left eyebrow raised as though shooting up from a business-meeting table in fury.

John slouched down in the wooden chair opposite the happy couple and took a rather noisy bite of his croissant. The lovebirds followed suit. There was silence save for the crunches.

"I have the jumper," John informed Jessica, coldly.

"Oh, well, good- I didn't find it at mine," she replied, sweet as her tea. John sighed and nodded as he took a swig of his own. He reprimanded himself for being rude to Jessica. Jessica hadn't done anything wrong. Jessica had been the one who'd had to listen to the bellow that rattled the doorknob of his sexuality closet. He forced a smile at her before bulleting a slitted-eye glare at Sherlock. Sherlock had been the one who'd put him in this scenario. The detective met the doctor's daggers with bemused bewilderment over the rim of his tea, which he downed in a heartbeat.

"Something the matter, John? And could I have some more tea?"

John banged his mug down.

"You know what-" he half-shouted, shoulders tensing and chest expanding. Then he exhaled, hung and shook his head and smiled as he took Sherlock's cup: he was not going to rise to the wind-up and fulfil whatever warped vengeance Sherlock had planned because John hadn't put him in immediate contact with the lady currently eyeing a flake of croissant on Sherlock's lapel. He swept it away- instinctively- before she could covet it, laminate it, frame it and hang it on her bedroom wall.

As John stormed off, Sherlock turned his attentions back to Jessica, who swooned in her seat and glittered in arousal. He didn't seem to quite know how to position himself before he rested an elbow on the back of the chair, folded his legs and inclined his head towards her.

"So- is our little Johnny boy as good in the sack as he boasts to be?" he questioned, softly, smiling charmingly.

"Ah!" Jessica exhaled, smiling back. She glanced around Sherlock to see if John was watching then dived back into Sherlock's eyes. "Has he still not told you?" Sherlock tilted his head to the side and feigned ignorance and interest, reaching up to clasp his hands together, keeping his elbow where it was. John strolled back into the living room in time for Jessica to berate him.

"John, you still haven't told him? That's terrible! Even more inappropriate, in my opinion!" Sherlock arched his neck around and probed John's eyes with his own.

"Tell me what?" None but John would sense the cueing note in Sherlock's voice- the one that told him he should be admitting something right about now. It was a tone his mother had used sparsely in his childhood and even less often in his adolescence. John had been a very sensible offspring.

John was genuinely confused for a moment before he caught on to what Jessica was on about. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, tried to smile and lie but then caught sight of a fast-fleeting grin on Sherlock's face.

"You know," John breathed, whole body relaxing in defeat. Sherlock blinked at John- a covert nod- and then turned back to Jessica.

"I know what?" She took a breath as if to tell him but- spying queasy panic on John's face- Sherlock decided enough fun had been had. He silenced her by stroking a drop of tea from under her lower lip and slipping a piece of card into the fold of dress at her chest. It was on her intellect to deduce whether or not he had given her his number. She decided he had. He had not. "Maybe John will tell me," he murmured, darkly. She reacted as if he had just told her he wanted to drizzle her in honey and clean it all up before she got too sticky. Before she melted into the chair, Sherlock raised her with a hand under a arm and they both stood up.

She cleared her throat and sighed, nodding.

"I'll give you some time alone, then," she simpered, touching a hand to the card at her breast before giving a sympathetic look to John and exiting the apartment.


	4. Silver, StarShaped Cog

Hello, all. Thank you so much for your warm words and exciting favouriting and subscribing. So honoured and encouraged. Have a deerstalker helium balloon on your way out : ) Any feedback is more than welcomed, so please feel free to review. It really helps : ) To anyone interested, I have written other Sherlock stories, so check my profile. 'In This Playground', 'Holmage' and 'Sherlock Drabbles' are all based on the BBC adaptation whilst 'Customary Badinage' is based on the Guy Ritche interpretation.

Hope you enjoy this chapter. Let me know!

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><p><strong>Silver, Star-Shaped Cog<strong>

Both men stared at the living-room doorway for many moments after the front-door downstairs had closed. Sherlock's hands were slipped into his black trouser pockets, John's out and clenched at his sides as he swallowed and tried to pre-empt what was coming, tried to read the back of his tall, lithe friend for any clue, any... _any_thing to stop the acute clenching of his heart in his chest, the cramps in his forearms as he dug his nails deep into his palm and then splayed his fingers outward and straightened his back.

Be professional, John, he told himself. Be professional.

Sherlock took a heavy but silent breath and then another, louder one. He took two measured steps backwards and sat down in the chair. John remained standing. He licked his lip, eyes flitting to each of the four corners of the room. Sherlock leaned over, clasped his hands in a praying shape and stared at the floor. He seemed pensive, as ever, but not scheming. There was, John noticed, no malice in his eyes. Sherlock took a short intake of breath and his neck stretched an inch, just enough to signal to John he was about to speak.

"No. Don't speak." John's voice was hurried, defined but not brusque. He wanted control of this conversation. He shifted his weight from side to side, as he was prone to do when deliberating, clenched and unclenched his hands one more time and then shut his eyes.

And spoke.

"I slept with Jessica and when I... when I-" he opened his eyes and pointed a finger at Sherlock, instinctively stopping him- "No, don't finish my sentence. I'm talking. I'm going to say this. Once." Sherlock closed his mouth. Neither of them had had eye contact in more than four minutes. Sherlock engaged himself in picking under his well-trimmed nails, occupying himself not rudely but in an attempt to distract his brain so he wouldn't interrupt John. John guessed as much and did not take offence. He closed his eyes again and small lines creased under his eyelashes. "When I slept with Jessica... When, with Jessica I slept..." John cleared his throat and angled his head away from Sherlock completely, the rest of his body rigid as he mentally reprimanded himself for making no more progress than manipulating the compounds of his sentence.

_Reacts intelligently in chaos. Reacts pragmatically in chaos. Reacts logically in chaos._ Sherlock's mind was whirring like a wind-up toy eager to hop ahead but held back by a hand. It was becoming increasingly difficult not to interrupt John, to purposefully incense him so he would just speak; because John _reacts well in chaos_...

"Okay. I slept with Jessica and, I don't know why- well, I'm sure many of our acquaintances would be happy to deduce why- but I'm not... there, yet..." John tumbled erratically over his words. "I... argh!" Both of his hands were flat as he brought them to either side of his head and turned to face the fireplace. Sherlock watched him, wide-eyed and blank faced.

"John, I-"

"God, shut up! For one minute in your life, just shut up!" Sherlock's chest deflated and he looked back to his own hands: _Scaphoid, lunate, triquetrum, pisiform, trapezium..._ "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" John asked, quietly. _Deflection of conversation topic..._

"No," Sherlock answered, also quiet. John took a steadying breath and blinked at the fireplace. "I know what happened, though, so there's no need-"

John inflated the room with fiery frustration as he shot his body through the air like a bullet and stood in front of Sherlock. He moved around constantly as he monologued, from Sherlock to armchair to fireplace and all in that determined yet still slightly agitated manner of his.

"You ever think that sometimes people _like_ to get some sentences out of their own? No, I don't suppose you do. Because all that goes through your head is the impassive, careless condensation of every particle that comes under that bloodhound nose. When a girl, boy, _human_ walks into the room, you don't think sex. You think science. What's worse, you've come to the accurate conclusion that anything anyone else says but you, the genius, is worthless and of course, in your line of work, that's a great way to think. Because they get there, _we_ get there faster with you." His right thigh was tensing and untensing continually now. He put a hand on the back of the armchair and looked at the empty seat. His voice became mellow. "Behind you. Around you. In awe- jealousy mostly from everyone else- but Sherlock, I am in awe. Of you." He looked up and was hooked by Sherlock's piercing stare. They stayed frozen for moments, the world showering around them, but immobile themselves in their little globe. Then John shook his head stiffly and sat down on the arm of the armchair and rubbed his face with his hands. "You... _consume_ everything around you. That's why people distance themselves, because they don't want to be trapped and analysed and known down to the skin. I didn't have a choice. I was... solo, independent, self-... self. Myself." He dropped his hands and regarded the window, the light, Sherlock nothing more than a raven-black blur in the corner of his vision. He saw Afghanistan across the road, not the chippy. It was broken, it was fallen, it was crumbled. He coughed, sniffed twice and began to breathe shallowly through his mouth. "But now it's..." he rubbed the inside corner of his eye and his body hunched over in submission. "'Sherlock Holmes and John Watson'... and I don't mind being ranked second. I am second. Always have been, always will be just as everyone is around you. I'm saying, in so many words, that I... want to be. Second place. Lord knows what's going through your brain." John looked over at Sherlock who, sensing silence, looked at John but then looked quickly away, scratching his eyebrow.

_Radius, ulna, humerus, capitulum, trochlea. Just say it, John. It's killing you not to. The stress._

"I'm thinking it's a lot simpler than any case I've solved before or will ever be likely to solve." _I... value, respect, revere, cherish, like you, John. I like_ you. This thought was a rare and splendid thing, a silver, star-shaped cog in Sherlock's mind amidst the millions of less eccentrically formed gears. For Sherlock did not like anyone. _And more than_ _likely, I_- Sherlock's brain muted out 'the l word' for the sake of preservation and logic._ You... But Cupid's Chemicals are inclined to break the heart. And I can't be any more selfish than I already am with you. I hurt people. I can't... won't hurt you_. _There are people who need my focus more._ Gears squeaked in his head as though berating the lie._ I will not hurt you, no matter why and ignoring this is a kindness. You'll get over it._ So Sherlock deliberately ignored what John was really talking about and steered away from the storm. "Jessica knew you were... flatmates with me, she was obsessed with me beforehand thanks to all that ridiculous media hype and honey-trapped you to get to me. Given the opportunity to come here- offered by me via your phone and the rental of your identity- she came, preened and subconsciously dressed like that minuscule muscle of female primary sexual characteristics- the clitoris, John, as you're well familiar- in order to trap me. But this is no ordinary crush. She's been hooked already. I'm sure even you noticed the pale ring mark on her finger and those earrings, never taken off not for at least two years. So she's not enamoured with either of us. Rather, she's enamoured with someone who wants to trap us. Well, me." Sherlock rolled his shoulder and plucked a tiny microphone off the back of his collar. "She planted this on me. Hopefully, it'll give us some hint as to who wants who, or what, and when." It was a deduction that Sherlock did not revel in revealing one bit for all the while, though his unaffected expression told otherwise, he was slowly tortured by John's countenance.

_Throat constricted, repeated swallowing, raised inner-ends of eyebrows, pupil contraction... _His mind began to analyse signs unique to John and not with Sherlock's own volition. It was automatic. _Raised left shoulder, slight turn of head away from me, left hand squeezing right on top of left thigh, concave withdrawal of chest..._ _Disappointment? No. _

_Sadness._

The star-shaped cog pricked his mind and guilt slithered down Sherlock's neck.

John's reaction was not to the dissertation of Jessica, but to Sherlock's seemingly emotionless response to John's speech now and the outcry of bliss the night before. Sherlock had completely ignored the sentiment of the scene. Before John could say or do anything, his mobile rang in his pocket.

"That'll be Lestrade," Sherlock said, calmly, as he stood up and caught his scarf from the door. "He'll want us to go to Scotland Yard. Get your jumper. It's cold out."


	5. The Word Was Whispered Warmly

**The Word Was Whispered Warmly**

The air trembled, a drumroll in the apartment with the dust floating in the new, golden light of the afternoon.

"No."

Sherlock's foot pressed down on the ground, but froze halfway through lifting it again. His ankle cracked.

"Well..." Sherlock took a deep breath. "Get cold then. But hurry up."

"No. I'm not coming." For all the confidence and discipline in John's voice, he felt less than the sixty feet tall he should. He was denying Sherlock. He was rejecting Sherlock Holmes.

_See how it feels._

Sherlock's body seemed to go on pause, profile to John. The drumroll panicked into a crescendo.

Slowly, Sherlock pulled the scarf around his neck and then looped it with characteristic finesse. He scrutinised the lintel of the door...

And then unhooked his coat, swept it on and made his way down the stairs...

And out of the door.

John was left in silence. John _was_ silence.

It was after a minute that the front door actually closed. As if Sherlock had been waiting for him, like an amused parent. But John had unlocked his leash. He shook off his collar, too, as he turned- determinedly- picked up the newspaper Sherlock had been reading earlier and settled into the armchair, reading...

'_Today... Today... Today... Today... Today..._' the word grew blurry on the page. John rubbed it with his thumb, testing for wet ink. But it was his eyes that were wet. Wet with frustration, guilt, bitterness... wet because he recognised Sherlock's pacing on the pavement outside, below the window... Those quality claps of Saville Row soles.

And then his dominating bellow to a passing taxi.

"Taxi!"

John closed his eyes, tried to block out the black velvet of Sherlock's voice as he muttered 'New Scotland Yard' to the cabbie.

And then the taxi drove off.

John could see the blue devils of Sherlock's eyes, the frosty detachment and smooth brow... the mouth, cupid's bow, ever-so-slightly downturned... God, what arrows he had shot at John with that mouth.

He could see Sherlock slipping his gloves out of his coat pockets, pulling them on with subtle, theatrical flair... Could hear him, _feel_ him sniff in stubborn nonchalance... then yank those gloves off and beckon customised directions to the cabbie-

"Arrogant son of a-" John pressed his lips together and shook his head, dropping the newspaper and putting a hand to his forehead.

The cabbie would be getting agitated right about now at having a young-something telling him how to navigate London... Then the image of the taxi cab halting, the cabbie demanding that Sherlock leave the vehicle for being a condescending know-it-all prick...

John shot up, turned his head to the door and gritted his teeth as his feet ached to tread the path Sherlock had done minutes before.

_"I know what happened, though, so there's no need-" _Sherlock's voice paddled in John's mind.

_"Sherlock, I am in awe. Of you." _His own voice echoed on top. _God, how mundane I must sounded. How... normal._

John sat back down. He eyed the rest of his croissant on the table.

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><p><strong><em>Two Hours Later<em>**

"Any luck, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked as he strode into the little, artificially-lit office. Sherlock didn't hear him. He was sat at a table, with his gloves on, black coat wrapped tightly around him and scarf held in his teeth as he scrutinised.

In his hands was a sheet of fax-paper and on it a message hand-written in classic calligraphy.

'_So, the Bakewell tart wasn't to your taste? Maybe a Paris-breast to wash the taste away? Bon appetite, Sherlock Holmes._' Bakewell tart referred, of course, to the red-robed cherry, Jessica Townsend.

"Sherlock?" Sherlock inhaled through his nose and turned his head as he did so. He let the scarf fall from his bite.

"What?" Lestrade gave him a confused look, waiting for the spike of Sherlock sardonicism, something more than the cordial composure. But no. Not to be. So he kept calm and carried on.

"Any luck? On working out... deciphering-" Lestrade seemed proud of himself for the synonym- "the letter?"

"Slightly harder from coming from a fax-machine... would have been nice to see it..." Sherlock rolled his neck. "Fresh..." the word was whispered warmly, so warm it made Lestrade blink rapidly and take a step back as though to give Sherlock a moment alone. Sherlock repeated the word once. Then again. The third time came with Sherlock's eyebrows knitting together and his eyes widening, lips parted as he gazed at Lestrade's white shirt, a stain on the collar.

_Stain. John. Curry. Jessica. Jessica... _

Sherlock looked back at the letter.

'_Bon appetite'..._

_"I brought croissants!"_ Jessica had brought croissants...

"She brought croissants..." Sherlock muttered. Lestrade sighed and leaned against the doorframe, folding his arms.

"Who bought croissants?"

"No!" Sherlock cried, standing up. His hands gestured as he explained, quickly. "She didn't buy them. They came in a paper bag, yes, but there was no logo, no motif. She didn't buy them. She _brought_ them. Someone... someone gave them to her."

"Who?" Lestrade pushed.

"Jessica. Jessica Townsend."

"The one we found on the database when you got here, yeah. Clean record. Oh, by the way that microphone was a dummy. A fake. Anyway, what she's got to do with-"

"What _has_ she got to do with it," Sherlock corrected, "is the question. Croissants are a typically French food. Actually originate in Turkey, but that's non-consequential. See, here-" Sherlock swiped up the letter and pointed "'Bon appetite'... French."

"Yes, I know-"

"And '_Paris-breast_' is spelt incorrectly. It should be 'Brest', as in a city in France. They've put 'breast'. A pun," Sherlock looked disgusted with the joke. "So another woman's on the way for me... from... We're looking for a baker. A foodie. A French... what are the local boulangeries?" Sherlock asked, as if he needed the answers.

"Um..." Lestrade began, but Sherlock was already past patisserie stores. He was on this morning. He was remembering how many folds there had been in that dress, whether he had looked away at any point... Yes. To blink at John. That would have been enough time.

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"John?"

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed again, speeding past Lestrade.

"What?" John sidled up between a row of desks as Sherlock headed straight ahead.

"John," Lestrade greeted.

"John..." Sherlock whispered at the sound of John's voice. He turned to him and paused, but wasted no more time before lunging and shaking John by the arms.

"Did you eat the rest of that croissant?"

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><p>Thank you all for the subscriptions- so encouraging and flattering! Please let me know what you think and thank you to those who have reviewed so far : )<p> 


	6. Even The Dust

**Even The Dust**

"Croissant? No," John replied, blinking hurriedly as Sherlock squeezed his biceps hard. "It smelt funny."

"Good," Sherlock exhaled, letting go of John and looking to Lestrade as a secretary swayed past them and a phone rang in the corner of the large, rectangular, mostly grey, office suite. "I'm going back to Baker Street. Whoever this is will probably send the next one to me there."

"The next what?"

"Woman. A '_Paris-breast_'." Sherlock glanced at John, whose mouth was partly open. "Coming?" he asked, rather archly. John narrowed his eyes slightly, then held his hands behind his back and looked down at the mushroom carpet. With a frank but still quite dismal expression, he then looked Sherlock straight in the eye and said,

"Always."

They froze, again, as they were prone to do.

Lestrade looked between them both, bewildered and bemused.

"Have another domestic, boys?" he teased, trying to sprinkle some humour into the scene. Sherlock walked away, whilst John served Lestrade with a forced smile, that did not reach his eyes, before he followed behind. Lestrade stared after them- the sparrow and the raven- before a colleague came up next to him and handed him a file.

* * *

><p>"Why did you come?" Sherlock asked as the taxi stopped at the traffic lights. John gritted his teeth and stared out of the window.<p>

"Sorry."

"Oh, don't be sorry," Sherlock sighed, looking out of his window as he took off his gloves and folded them in his lap. "Just a waste of money, is all." John's shoulders dropped.

"Well, I'll remember not to come next time and wait," he bit the word out, "until I am whistled for." Sherlock raised a faint eyebrow and blinked at his knee.

"I would have paid if you'd come when-"

"Don't bother, Sherlock. Just don't bother."

Silence resumed aside from the purr of the engine as it drove on and round a corner.

Why had John come? Because he hated the thought that Sherlock might need backup and he wouldn't be there. And had he been needed? No. What was the point, really? He tried to distract himself from the pain of feeling pointless.

"So. What's the case?" Sherlock glanced at John and licked his lips before taking the letter out of his coat pocket.

"Some perverted pâtissier. Your friend Jessica-"

"She's not my friend."

"Well, your fling, Jessica Townsend, was sent by them to snare me. And you."

"Why?"

"Not entirely sure yet. But I have a feeling it's only just begun."

When they arrived, John got out of the taxi, allowing Sherlock to take care of the fare. Up in the apartment a few moments later, John sat back in the armchair whilst Sherlock headed for the kitchen, where the microscope was.

John did nothing, managing for a while to mute the sounds of Sherlock behind him as he exclaimed and hummed and tutted and grunted. He barely saw the window he was staring at, barely felt the arms of the chair which he was resting his hands on.

He was bothered. Bothered that Sherlock was completely ignoring the obvious, which was- when it came to matters of the heart- not wholly unexpected from the detective, but still rather...

Poignant. It stung.

It stung and it was boring and it was aggravating because somehow, _somehow_, things were settling back to normal; like John had blown as hard as he could and though the dust had risen, it still floated back down... not really bothered with John. Even the dust was under Sherlock's control.

"Why am I here..." John thought, muttering it aloud without realising. He blinked, tears slipping down his cheeks not from woe but from having had his eyes open for a solid minute.

"Because no one else can or would stand me. Because I don't trust anyone else. Because no one else has the stamina for what I, _we_, do. Because it's good to have an army doctor as a partner. Because you're relatively smarter than _them_. Because you help me and I'm fairly sure I help you. Well, helped. Not sure... how that's... going now..."

John gave a start and twisted round in his seat to look up at Sherlock who- in a complimenting shirt that gave birth to that slender, defined neck as pale as a dove's breast- was standing next to John's chair as he fiddled with the letter in his hands, turning it this way and that. His eyes were dark, like someone had pricked them and navy ink had swam free and his voice... Dark hot chocolate. Suddenly, he swerved his eyes and fixed them on John's.

"Did you ever wonder how I solve cases so fast? The every-day ones that take others at least double the time?"

"Yes," John rasped, throat dry. He cleared it and repeated.

"Not that I wouldn't be capable of it without you here but... know this: I care more. When you're... there. Even when you're sitting and moping. I care more. I have solved more mysteries _because_ you're here. _Because_ I want to. I want to... I want to be..."

John was dumbfounded both with what Sherlock was saying and how difficult it seemed for him to say it. He realised he was gaping like a goldfish idiot and promptly closed his mouth and cleared his throat again, furrowing his brow and looking away from Sherlock, setting his eyes on the wallpaper.

"Less of a know-it-all prick?" John offered, quietly. Sherlock didn't answer. Instead he walked slowly over to the window and peeked out of it.

"John, what time is it?" John slipped his phone out of his pocket.

"Three fifteen."

"Hm. Would you go and get some milk from the corner shop?"

"Get it yourself," John responded, drily, putting his phone back away.

"I don't know what it looks like."

"Oh don't be ridic-" John thought for a second and concluded that it wouldn't be so ridiculous for Sherlock not to recognise the milk John preferred. "It's very simple- bottle with white stuff in it with a green cap."

"Sounds like a cocktail to me."

"Oh for pity's sake!" John shot up and marched to Sherlock, who was already holding out the money for it, then made his way downstairs. He needed some air, anyway. Needed to mull over what Sherlock had said. Before the front door closed, Sherlock called out for the evening newspaper as well.

Just to rile John up enough so he wouldn't concentrate...

Sherlock watched the man march out of the building, conventionally check both ways before crossing (without really looking because he was too busy muttering to himself for numerous, Sherlock-related reasons), then cross over the road and-

Get hit by a lady on two wheels.

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><p>Any feedback really helps!<p> 


	7. Smile As Her Caramel Hair

Okay! So, here's the next chapter. Feedback would be wonderful, but either way, I hope you enjoy : )

* * *

><p><strong>Smile As Her Caramel Hair<strong>

"Ah! Je suis désolé, je ne vous voyais pas!" A couple and a teenager skirted around the human heap and overturned bicycle in the middle of the pavement outside Baker Street.

"Um..." John said, assuming the lady had just apologised as he had helped her up from the ground with his hand. Now stood, they looked at one another. Well, John glanced up about half a foot and managed to glimpse a pair of wide, almond eyes set in a lightly tanned face that reminded him slightly of a gazelle. Her lips were thin, pink and pointed at the top like Sherlock's were, but not quite so sharply. She had a long, slender neck and her body was one wispy line, save for the bounteous bust John was having trouble not admiring, considering he was at eye level with it. It was modestly concealed in a thin, floaty, sky-blue silk shirt. He didn't looked any further down, too captured by those _chocolat_ eyes. He realised after open-mouthed occassion, that the lady was smiling at him rather amusedly.

"Maybe it is not my _erreur_ I did not see you," she laughed, softly. So enchanted by her, John took no offence at the subtle height joke.

"I'm vertically challenged," he joked back. She tilted her head to the side in confusion. John picked his jaw up from the pavement and shook his head, smiling. He realised, in the break of conversation, that he was still holding her hand and that she- this belle of Baker Street- did not seem discomforted by the fact. He cleared his throat and let go of her silky soft palm so that he could set her bicycle the right way up. Once erected, the bicycle seemed impatient with the continuing pause of speech, as if anxious to continue on its out-and-about. The lady put her hand on it to steady it.

"My... my fault," the lady breathed, still smiling that heart-attack smile as her caramel hair twisted and billowed in the breeze.

"Non, je suis sûr que c'était la faute de mon ami." _No, I am quite sure it was my friend's fault_. "Êtes-vous blessé?" The lady's neck curved like a crescent moon- _non- a croissant._ _Oui_, John thought- as she looked up at a Frenchman behind John, who was desperately trying to remember more French words than foodstuffs. He peered round and was faced with the black of Sherlock's coat. Not a Frenchman then. Just Sherlock. Speaking French.

"You speak French?" John muttered under his breath as Sherlock stepped next to John. Sherlock gave a short nod, hands behind his back and scarf whipping round in the stronger breeze, but he was smiling at the lady replying. Purring.

John's chest tightened and he found himself frustrated in more senses than one.

"Non, pas de mal. En fait, il était tout à fait un ... plaisir. Voulez-vous dire à votre ami que?" _No, not hurt. In fact, it was quite a ... pleasure. Would you tell your friend that? _Sherlock translated in his head.

"She... ahh, quel est votre nom?"

"Elise." _Lie_, said Sherlock's mind.

"Elise said that you ruined her outing," Sherlock lied himself. Mouth an 'o', John looked to 'Elise' in apology. "Est-il possible en outre nous pouvons vous aider?" _Is there any further way we can help?_

John gritted his teeth as he found himself barred from the conversation and observed 'Elise' melting under Sherlock's warm gaze. She held her hair back in one golden hand as the wind picked up. Somewhere amongst another honeyed hum of French, John managed to pick up the phrase '221B Baker Street' and joined Sherlock in a smile as he replied.

"Vous êtes ici. You're here."

"Ah! Bon. Savez-vous Sherlock Holmes?" _Do you know Sherlock Holmes_? She let go of the bike to gesture at Sherlock who narrowed his eyes and caught the side of the bike with one swift hand.

_She knows who I am. She knows John is John. Why the pretence? _

Dropping a fair amount of his previous charm, Sherlock revealed himself to be the man she was looking for. The wind picked up with shocking vigour and all three of them had to hang onto the bike.

"Maybe we should go inside, Sherlock?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes again at 'Elise', scrutinising her and ignoring the fact that John was close to being boomeranged around the lamppost across the road such was the force of the gust. When he had worked out the threat, he conceded.

"Venez à l'intérieur." _Come inside._

They struggled through the wind and managed to make their way up stairs. 'Elise', once in the living room, caught John's eye and blew her hair out of her face rather comically. He laughed and she giggled back. Sherlock we occupied with the bicycle, which he was studying downstairs.

"Err... thé?" _Tea?_ John offered, recalling a little French.

"Ah, oui, merci." The light was dimming in the apartment as the day aged, so John walked around flicking all the lamps on after showing 'Elise' to a seat and setting the kettle. "Croissants," John said, smiling and pointing at the remnants of breakfast from the kitchen doorway. 'Elise's spun-sugar eyebrows drew together as she smiled politely. There was a comfortable silence.

Downstairs, Sherlock was busy scratching debris off the tires of the bicycle. Mrs Hudson, in a purple frock, came up from her downstairs kitchen and put two hands on her legs as she moaned,

"Oh, Sherlock, I've just swept."

"Relax, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock muttered, "it will all be gone soon." He paused in his occupation for a second to glare at the stairs as a French laugh floated down them. Mrs Hudson practically squealed.

"Ahh, you have company, Sherlock? And you're cleaning her bike?"

"Not cleaning, raping for evidence," Sherlock droned, "and l'invité," here, Sherlock spoke in a mock French accent, "doesn't speak a word of English and is a potential threat to John's life."

"What!" Mrs Hudson gasped. Sherlock stood up and shook the plastic wallet he had been scraping the dirt into before ensuring the bicycle was leaning against the wall. He smiled.

"Dependant, of course, on how quickly she takes her top off." With that, he took the stairs three at a time and left Mrs Hudson shaking her head at the red dust on her hallway floor. He entered the living room just as 'Elise' squealed, tea spilt on her top.

"Oh, no." John shot up from his seat. "Hold on, I'll get you a..." John stooped and mimed a square, as if for cloth.

Sherlock walked forward, silently and slowly, surveying the scene and eventually leaning against the wall to watch what he had known was coming since he had read the note.

"No, no, it is fine," she cooed and with that she gracefully slid her top off, elegant elbows poised just so to allow a perfect portrait of her-

"Breasts," John exhaled, eyes cartoon-wide. _Yes,_ Sherlock thought_, Paris breasts_. _The letter said as much. This is dull_.

Sherlock decided to give John some time and admired, for a moment, the way in which John was able to stare at 'Elise's chest without seeming perverted. He was simply in awe of something, well, something_s_, beautiful. He watched John's hands flex at his sides and stole yet another moment to appreciate those skilled, firm fingers that could dance a spider's waltz in a surgery.

In case she hadn't hooked John surely enough, 'Elise' inhaled. Sherlock gave John a couple more seconds before he swept forward and pulled a clean shirt from inside his coat, pushing it to 'Elise's chest without looking.

"Une amélioration, certes, mais encore une fois, pas à ma palette. Suivant. Et dites à votre patron pour ramasser leur jeu ou je n'aurai même pas à distance de l'examiner." _An improvement, certainly, but again, not to my palette. Next. And tell your boss to pick up their game or I will not even remotely consider it. _He stood next to John and folded his arms. 'Elise' pouted her lips and smirked at Sherlock, knowingly, not offended at all. She had done her job. She'd still be paid.

"Une pitié. J'aurais aimé jouer un peu plus avec vous," Elise purred, as she glided up and made a show of putting the new shirt on. _A pity. I would have liked to play some more with you._ John admired some more, as Sherlock rolled his eyes and walked into the kitchen. "Au revoirs!" she cooed.

"Bon chance," Sherlock mumbled. 'Elise' blew a kiss to John, who blushed, and then made her way out. John started and made to follow her, but Sherlock stopped him. "John, she's gone."

John was rooted to the spot. He felt surreal. Would something like that have happened if he didn't know Sherlock? Either way, it was obvious Sherlock had sent her away.

"Why..." John cleared his dry throat and turned, simply, to glare wide-eyed at Sherlock. "Why is she gone?"

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><p>Help John and... review! And- as a succour to being rejected by Sherlock- I might send Dr Watson another pretty mademoiselle to admire : )<p> 


	8. Author's Note

Okay! Thank you to all who have favourited and reviewed ^.^ Seriously- help yourself to the cookies and muffins and ice cream : )

Just a little request from me: some constructive feedback, honest as you like, on the story so far. Most helpful will have a sentence of their own making in the next chapter (preferably something someone says... random as you like ^.^!)

Many thanks and I really do hope you're enjoying this,

~ImagineI


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